


Office Gossip

by BearlyWriting



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Clark Kent, Cock Warming, Deepthroating, Exhibitionism, M/M, Office Sex, Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Top Bruce Wayne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:41:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28441839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BearlyWriting/pseuds/BearlyWriting
Summary: “It’s a common misconception, Bruce muses, that Kryptonians don’t need to breathe.”Bruce wants to try something and Clark is all too happy to oblige.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 20
Kudos: 221
Collections: Batfam Kinkmas Exchange 2020





	Office Gossip

**Author's Note:**

  * For [juggling_hearts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/juggling_hearts/gifts).



> A treat for juggling_hearts kinkmas prompt! I don’t know if this is exactly what you were looking for but I hope you enjoy anyway! :)

It’s a common misconception, Bruce muses, that Kryptonians don’t need to breathe. It’s true, of course, that Superman can hold his breath longer than any human can - long enough to allow him to survive even in the vacuum of space. But even Superman needs oxygen eventually. Clark had told him as much, early on, when Bruce had been collecting as much data on the alien as he could get his hands on.

Still, his own research is always more reliable than anything else. People can lie. Not that he expects Clark to lie to him. But, it’s never good practice to rely on anything but hard facts.

Which is good enough reason, Bruce supposes, to test out that famous breath control for himself.

So far, Clark has held his breath for a good ten minutes, although Bruce will be the first to admit that the testing environment is hardly the most well-controlled. At the very least, Bruce’s cock has been sunk into his throat for eight of those minutes - although Bruce supposes Clark might be able to breathe through his nose where it’s pressed into the curly hair of Bruce’s groin. Bruce has been a little distracted by Lucius, pulling sheaf after sheaf of paper out of his briefcase and expecting Bruce to sign it.

“Another one?” Bruce asks impatiently as Clark’s throat contacts around him in another heavy swallow. Saliva is dripping thickly from the stretched corners of his mouth, wetting Bruce’s suit pants and the curly thatch of hair at the root of his cock, but Clark has been trying his best to keep it contained. Every swallow, though, sends electric jolts of arousal through Bruce’s gut and it’s making it hard to concentrate.

“Yes, Bruce,” Lucius says, with long-suffering patience. “Another one. All you have to do is scribble your signature here. I’ve already read through them.”

Bruce huffs, although he’s secretly pleased with Lucius’ conscientiousness. He’s already read all of the documents, anyway, when Lucius had faxed them through to him earlier in the week, but keeping up the Brucie Wayne persona is as important as actually doing the work.

“Fine,” Bruce sighs, shifting a little in his seat, flexing his fingers where they’re weaved into Clark’s thick locks. If Lucius thinks it’s weird that Bruce has been signing papers one handed, he hasn’t said anything, and Bruce likes being able to touch Clark, to tug on his hair and stoke over his cheek and press his thumb to the stretched-wide corner of his lips.

When Lucius slides the paper across the desk, Clark swallows again and Bruce has to clench his teeth against the moan that wants to slip out. He slides his thumb around to Clark’s throat, to feel the bulge of himself beneath smooth skin and has to shut his eyes to keep himself in check. There’s something undeniably erotic about feeling himself through the thin membrane of Clark’s flesh.

One-handed, Bruce signs the paper and slides it back across the desk. Lucius returns it to his satchel and removes another sheaf and _finally_ Clark taps Bruce’s hip and pulls back. The feeling of his cock sliding through the tight channel of Clark’s throat is exciting in a whole other way, and Clark tempers his disappointment by poking the tip of his tongue into Bruce’s slit. Bruce shudders at the sensation, obviously enough that Lucius frowns, pausing with his hand still on the paper.

“Are you alright?” he asks, all conscientious concern.

“Fine,” Bruce growls. He doesn’t trust himself to say any more because Clark is doing something _spectacular_ with his tongue, which Bruce is using the last of his brain power to remind himself to make a note of later, because that has to be something to do with his alien anatomy. There’s no way a normal human tongue could do _that_.

Then Clark is swallowing him down again, one hand firm on the crest of Bruce’s hip. And Bruce has to expend every last shred of energy on keeping his desperate moan contained.

Lucius shoots Bruce another concerned look as he retracts the last of the paperwork. “Are you sure you’re alright? I can cancel the meeting if you need…”

“No,” Bruce cuts him off, “I’m honestly fine, Lucius, you can send them on in.”

Under the desk, Clark taps at his hip again. Bruce isn’t entirely sure what that means, but Clark isn’t pulling away, so he just slides his fingers a little further into Clark’s hair and allows himself an aborted rock of his hips. It doesn’t get him any deeper - because how can he get any deeper? - but it soothes a little of the restless energy in his muscles.

Clark swallows around him, then swallows again when the door slides open and Lucius ushers Bruce’s guests in.

They’re no one particularly important, just some minor-league investors who Bruce has to lend an ear to once a month. So it’s fine, Bruce justifies, if he's a little distracted. It’s not like anyone expects Brucie Wayne to be paying much attention anyway.

And he’s definitely distracted. Halfway through the meeting, Clark seems to tire of just warming his cock. Bruce jerks at the sudden contraction of his throat, impossibly tight around him. Has to play it off as if he’d almost been falling asleep, although his grip on the desk is hard enough to make the wood creak. His grip on Clark, too, is hard enough to be yanking the hair out of his scalp, if he were human.

Bruce feels Clark’s lips twitch, as if he wants to smile, then his throat is _vibrating_. White-hot pleasure spikes through Bruce’s gut and he has to bite his cheek so hard he tastes iron to keep the startled moan inside his throat where it belongs. His hips jerk, pressing hard against Clark’s face and Clark hums again, silently, sending more shocks of pleasure right through Bruce.

“Mr. Wayne?” one of his guests says, tentatively. He’s eyeing Bruce with concern and Bruce doesn’t blame him. He knows how he must look. He can feel the flush of pleasure warming his cheeks, the drop of sweat trickling over his temple. “Are you alright?”

Bruce opens his mouth to grunt _fine_ again, but Clark takes the opportunity to drag his mouth up the length of Bruce’s cock before plunging back down all the way to the root. The word dies on Bruce’s tongue. His breath hitches embarrassingly. The investor - Brown? Barton? - reaches out like he wants to grab Bruce’s arm.

“If you’re not feeling well…”

Clark bobs his head again. Bruce presses his thumb hard into Clark’s cheek and suddenly wishes he were a more active participant.

“Actually, you’re right. I’m sorry to have you come all this way, but I think we need to rearrange.”

“It’s no problem, Mr. Wayne,” one of the investors says and they both stand and start packing up their little presentation. “Do you need us to send someone in?”

“No,” Bruce grunts. Clark is still bobbing his head, working his mouth over Bruce’s cock, and Bruce is torn between wishing he could grip Clark’s head and thrust into his throat, and worrying that the two other men in the room might be able to hear the wet sounds of Clark’s effort.

Not that it’s all worry that’s tightening his chest. Bruce knows himself well enough to recognise the hot excitement that the prospect sparks in him. There’s a reason Bruce had asked Clark to do this, after all. 

But enjoying the potential of it and having it actually happen are two entirely different things.

By the time the two investors have packed their things and left Bruce’s office with a quiet click of the door, Bruce is practically vibrating out of his skin. Clark has set a steady, maddening rhythm, taking Bruce deep into his throat again and again, tracing his tongue over the head with every upward pull. Bruce’s grip on the desk is so tight that his fingers ache.

The moment the door has closed behind them, Bruce grips Clark’s head with both hands and fucks up into that slick mouth.

“You’re done teasing,” he growls, each word punched out between vicious thrusts. Clark is limp in his hands and Bruce knows he’ll let him do whatever he wants with him. The thought sends another pang of arousal through his gut.

“Get up here,” he says, breathless. 

He pulls Clark’s head back until his cock slips free, then tugs him up between his spread legs. Clark goes easily enough, rising up on his knees with enviable grace, smiling with red, wet lips at Bruce’s desperation. When he grips both of Bruce’s thighs in broad hands, as if to steady himself, Bruce can’t help the shudder that rips through him.

In a vain attempt to hide it, he lunges forward and crashes their mouths together. Clark meets him eagerly, clumsy lips and teeth and tongue. That clever, clever tongue. Bruce groans into the kiss. Fumbles at the front of Clark’s trousers, feeling the evidence of his enjoyment. Clark moans too, a low, deep rumble against Bruce and Bruce feels his arousal surge through him like a tidal wave.

He drags Clark up and Clark doesn’t resist him at all, letting him turn him over and bend him over the desk. He lets out an erotic little gasp as Bruce presses his bare erection to the curve of his ass.

When Bruce yanks his trousers down, he actually keens.

“Be quiet,” Bruce growls, layering himself across the broad muscle of Clark’s back. It’s never easy to forget exactly how much strength the man possesses, but like this, feeling the swell and flex of his back muscles against Bruce’s chest as he scrabbles at the wood of the desk, it feels impossible to ignore.

And yet, he’s letting Bruce do this. He’s lying across the desk, limp and pliant and utterly at Bruce’s mercy. And it’s not like Bruce could hurt him. It’s not like Bruce could really make him do anything that Clark didn’t explicitly want to do, but the control sets a wildfire burning in Bruce’s stomach, regardless.

“Be quiet,” Bruce says again. “Unless you want my receptionist to hear?”

Clark shudders at the words and Bruce is reminded that this isn’t entirely for his own benefit.

Fuck, he needs to be inside him. Bruce’s cock is still slick with spit, aching and cold in the cool air of his office. Bruce fumbles at the draw of his desk, yanking it open in two jerky movements and pulling out the little bottle of lube he keeps for emergencies. Clark doesn’t need it, exactly, but it makes everything more comfortable when it’s slick, so Bruce takes the time to squeeze a dollop onto his hand, then over Clark’s crack, a glistening line over the smooth skin of his ass. Still, he doesn’t waste that much time, fingering Clark briskly, not bothering to search for his prostate, although Clark moans like he has until he pulls his fingers free to slick up his own cock.

They’re both already so worked up from the earlier teasing that Bruce doubts this will last long.

When he presses into Clark, he lets out his own low groan. Clark is hot and soft and tight around him, his muscles clenching and contracting like he’s trying to suck Bruce in, his whole body opening so beautifully around him. Clark makes a sound like he’s been punched as Bruce sheathes himself deep, although Bruce has no idea whether the man has ever even been winded before. 

Against the dark wood of the desk, Clark looks beautiful, his hair spread around him like a halo, his blue eyes half-lidded and dark with lust. Bruce runs the fingers of one hand over the red of his lips, dipping just the tips into the part of his mouth. A tease.

“Please,” Clark whispers. Then he flicks his wet, pink tongue out over the tips of Bruce’s fingers.

Bruce groans again, forcing his fingers deep into Clark’s waiting mouth. Then he starts moving, rutting against Clark’s ass, setting a quick, brutal rhythm that he knows Clark can take.

And Clark does take it, writing under Bruce, pushing his hips back as best he can to meet every thrust. He sucks at Bruce’s fingers, too, drooling around them as he pants and moans, laving his tongue between the webbing of Bruce’s hand and over the rough pads. Bruce isn’t going to last much longer. Already, he can feel his orgasm building in his gut.

The intercom buzzes.

Bruce freezes, his hips pressed flush to Clark’s, his fingers stilled against his tongue. The slightly staticy voice of his receptionist cuts through the air like a knife. “Mr. Wayne, I’m sorry to disturb you, but there’s someone here to see you.”

Beneath him, Clark grunts. His whole body tightens, squeezing around Bruce’s cock in a way that could be completely unintentional, or could be a tease. Bruce tugs his fingers free from Clark’s mouth, but resumes thrusting, driving himself into Clark even as he reaches over and presses the button on the intercom.

And, fuck, he can’t deny that this has him hot under the suit he’s still mostly wearing. If Clark were to make a sound, if Bruce were, it wouldn’t exactly be hard to guess what was happening.

“Who is it?” he asks, and is pleased with how steady his voice sounds.

Clark whimpers at a particularly hard thrust. Bruce yanks his fingers away from the button, his pulse pounding in his throat, and hopes his receptionist - or whoever is waiting outside with her - hadn’t heard it.

“It’s a Mr. Barton, sir. I’m afraid he’s left his jacket in your office.”

Bruce slides his free hand around Clark’s hip and grips his straining erection. Clark jerks like he’s been electrocuted, twitching beneath Bruce’s fingers. It only takes two rough strokes to have him arching, crying out as he spills hot and wet over Bruce’s skin, over the bottom of Bruce’s desk. Bruce bites down hard on the invulnerable skin of his throat to muffle his own noise as he follows him right over that cliff, his orgasm crashing through him like a wildfire, lit by the clenching of Clark around him and the prospect that the people waiting outside could come in at any moment and catch them.

When he finally comes down from his high, Clark is limp and panting underneath him. A large part of Bruce wants to gather him into his arms and gentle him, stroke through his hair and kiss his soft mouth and whisper praises for how well he did, how beautiful he is. Another, larger, part of him wants something entirely different.

“Mr, Wayne?” his receptionist asks again, hesitantly.

Bruce drags Clark up into a kiss that would be bruising for anyone else, then pushes him to his knees. Clark blinks, then smiles, slow and almost mean, before shuffling back to squeeze his broad shoulders beneath Bruce’s desk. Bruce offers his own smile as he sits back in his chair, spreading his legs wide to accommodate Clark as he tucks himself under.

“Thank you,” Bruce says, once he’s leant over and pressed the button for the intercom again, “you can send him in.”

Clark’s lips touch Bruce’s spent cock, a slick, wet tongue flickering out to start licking it clean of cum. Bruce bites his cheek not to make a sound and smiles as the investor from before walks through the door.

“Mr. Barton,” he says, voice smooth and even. “It’s good to see you again.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed :)


End file.
